


the sound of the woman who loves you

by Missy



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: Family History, Fix-It, Food, Future Fic, Gen, Ghosts, Haunting, Hell, Legends, Memories, Oral History, Saved From Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 09:05:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1545254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each of the women remembers Misty in her own way, and some mourn harder than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sound of the woman who loves you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariestess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariestess/gifts).



> Hi ariestess! When I got your assignment, my mind ended up being divided - on one hand, I wanted to write Nan backstory, and on the other hand, I wanted to write an epic story about how much Misty meant to the girls at the Academy. I ended up splitting the difference by making this your treat, since it includes some Zoe and a bit more about the baby whom Spalding captures. Hope you like this fic, too!

_Time cast a spell on you, but you won't forget me. I know I could have loved you, but you would not let me. I'll follow you down 'till the sound of my voice will haunt you. You'll never get away from the sound of the woman who loves you_ \- Fleetwood Mac, Silver Springs  
Written by Stevie Nicks

~~~

Zoe doesn't have time to think about what happened to Misty at first. She's too busy enjoying Madison-free time alone with Kyle to worry about anything more than the feeling of his arms around her. Then she's too busy helping Codelia organize the school to take the time to remember her friend. Seasons pass and she grows to enjoy New Orleans, grows into her role as advisor, forgets about the half-finished life she had with her parents back home and accepts that the Academy will be her future.

 

She doesn't reflect because she's so happy.

 

But Zoe never really had common sense on her side. That's a trait she shared with Misty, and that's what leads to restless dreams and wanderings that take her far from the warm bed she shares with Kyle, deep into the ivory perfection of the school’s austere belly.

 

That and the smell. 

If there’s one thing she's learned under the tutelage of Cordelia Foxx at Miss Robicheaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies - besides leadership skills, herbology, and how to slice a zombie in half with a chainsaw - it’s how to identify the odor of a rotting body.

 

It's not hard to figure out who's entombed Madison's putrid body in a doll's costume, and who's been hiding a tiny, barely-alive baby and feeding it draughts of old tea. They fly into motion: Cordelia takes charge of the exorcism, and Zoe and the reluctant Queenie are left with the rest of the girls to tend the baby.

 

Among midnight feedings and bloodthirsty screams from the attic Zoe turns to Kyle and asks him why.

 

She knows it’s him without having to probe for clues. Nobody else would care so much for her safety, but she has to know why If she ever wants to trust him again.

 

The words spatter from Kyle's lips; he'd taken revenge for her. Madison had refused to bring her back to life, so he’d made the call and taken her out.

 

Something inside of Zoe calcifies, harder and deeper than it had when Kyle had first died, when she’d first killed, even when they’d lost Misty. She pulls away from him so quietly that he barely notices, the gap between them widening hour by hour, day by day.

She fills her life with the girls’ light, with books and excursions and mentorship. It makes up for the children she won’t have, her life as a footnote in Cordellia’s reign.

When it bothers her too much, she and Queenie cluster together like lumps of sugar in a jar in Cordelia’s room. Now she remembers Misty. Now she sighs. "It's like she was never here," Zoe observes in a monotone, accepting a draping arm, the comfort of a cup of tea.

Many years later, when she's an old woman and her red hair is streaked with silver, she'll remember what Misty told her about being her best self, and she tries even harder.

This is what she learns from that swamp girl. How to live – alone but whole.

~~~

Queenie never knew Misty as well as Zoe did – and thus she finds the school’s extended mourning period a tad excessive. Scratch that – she asks why the hell people are stooping around and mourning ‘that white bitch’ so hard. Nan, her friend and roommate, is the one she misses the most, and the one who got near to no attention from her alleged witch sisters in death, being unlucky enough to die before the Seven Wonders were performed. So Queenie’s careful to pray for Nan’s southbound soul, to commune with her once a week in thanks Ties to communicate with her in her dreams too, only to meet an emotional wall.

Back to Misty. In Queenie’s opinion, the one thing that skinny chick did right was leave a bunch of fresh cakes sitting under a server in the kitchen after she died. Queenie knew she’d been hoarding food up in her room, ready to escape at any minute, afraid of the the constant threat of death as it stalked her. Misty isn’t alive to enjoy the sweets, so Queenie helps herself.

Cordelia arrives to see Queenie eating them and gives the girl one of her lovely smiles.

“Do you know what they are? Those, my dear, are called queen cakes,” says Cordelia.

She’s not at all surprised that a place as freaky as Miss Robicheaux’s has magically appearing queen cakes, but she sure as hell doesn’t want to keep eating them. “If these turn me into a ghost or a rabbit or some shit, just shoot me,” Queenie says, shoving them away.

“I don’t think they’re magical,” Cordelia says. “Misty might have left them just for you. They’re too fresh to be Delphine’s work.”

Queenie gives the frosting-covered cakes another thoughtful look. She gingerly reaches for and then eats a couple more before stowing the rest under a high porcelain cloche.

Later on she learns how to make them for herself, then for the girls. That recipe goes on to make generations of witches happy, so Queenie guesses Misty is good for something after all, even in retrospect.

And sometimes, when it’s particularly foggy, and her dreams turn violent and icy, she swears she sees a blonde girl screaming on the other side of her nightmares. But doesn't have the strength to break through the wall separating them and reach Nan, much less a woman she barely knows. She shrugs to herself about bad dreams, and tosses away the memory like a wad of wax paper.

~~~

She never met these girls, but they touch her things with officious familiarity. They know her story because it clings to Cordelia’s tongue like an ancient hymn and it becomes a ritual chant drummed into careless ears year after year.

When they’re six months into their training, they have to recite it back to Zoe with truehearted familiarity to pass their history class. To them, Misty Day is as distant as the big dipper, a long-lost shining specter and a beautifully bad example. 

They never tell their teachers, but rumors spread through the thin walls like an inferno anyway. Generation after generation of witches eventually hear the whispers, and some lucky few swear they have proof. The girls who lodge in room 67 have the strongest proof – they swear they still see her on beautiful summer days when the breeze is just so, a long, tall blonde girl in fringe and lace, dancing in silent circles in what had once been her room.

~~~

Cordelia's the one who has the most to mourn, and mourn she does, even under her starched, patrician mask of smiling authority.

Time is a blood jet. The school expands, forwards and backwards, and they have to build wings onto the original building to house the gaggle of girls who come and go from the school's apartments. Cement slabs cover the yard, the graves of the Lalurie girls and their mother, of the Axeman, of Luke and Mary, of the dozens of girls Hank killed during his marriage to Cordelia, of the bones of the rest of the old witch's council, of the desiccated Spaulding and the doll-perfect Madison, cover Marie LaVeau's forever wiggling arm. Cover even the charred but fashionable form of Cordelia's beloved Aunt Myrtle, and makes them clean and fresh again. 

When they’re done there's room enough for a garden, a tennis court, and a formal pavilion.

It's her idea to utilize Misty's old cabin as a botany center, and she herself holds classes there, traveling with a select handful of promising students who know how stoke living things to fecund life. None of them holds the same loving care for survival that Misty had, but she tries to encourage their growth tenderly.

She hears the rumors the girls pass about; knows they see Misty in the witching hour, where Stevie herself drew her strength. Cordelia sees her every night in the foggy nook of her mind, tries to draw her back toward the waking world, but Misty just smiles and dances away.

Cordelia won’t be defeated. She studies paranormics to reach Misty. And some nights she makes it to that dark classroom, sometimes she gets to touch her, but the room evaporates when Cordelia tries to speak or stop the events before her.

Until finally, finally, one day it happens – touching her doesn’t break the spell. She shakes Misty until he tears drip down her chin like summer rain. 

_Wake up! It’s not real!_ Cordelia begs.

And the room explodes in nuclear flashes of white and red, depositing them in a garden filled with wisteria and hot sunshine.

Misty clears her eyes of tears as Cordelia struggles to her feet. She knows well what this place is – it’s Misty’s swamp. The blonde girl laughs as recognition dawns and she spins out her joy. "I made it," she says, wearing the smile of a child. "I'm home, Miss Delia."

Cordelia smiles too. And laughs – and holds out her arms for a hug….

And the swamp witch’s arms close around her own warm, soft torso just as she wakes up.

The grass tickles her knees as Cordelia scoots up into a sitting position, ballasting herself against the bark of a sturdy old oak tree. Dizziness and confusion clog her mind, and she has to shake it all away, the blue-white stars dancing behind her eyelids and the queer feeling buried deep in the pit of her stomach.

“Mama?” 

Her eyes snap into focus. The girl crouches by her side, winsome in her red and white pinafore. Of course – she’d been at her piano lessons, and Cordelia had fallen asleep waiting for her. 

Mustering up the energy, Cordelia gives the girl a bleary smile of apology. “Where’s Zoe?” She’d come to town with them to pick up an anniversary present for Kyle.

“Waiting for the trolley.” The little girl’s arms reach out for Cordelia and she lets them loop about her neck. Her features must hold a residual trace of pain; the girl tilts her head and pouts. “What is it?” the four-year-old wonders.

Cordellia she brushed back a tear and reaches for the child’s hand. “It’s all right,” she says, forcing a smile. “Come on, Misty. Let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction uses characters from **American Horror Story: Coven** , all of whom are the property of the **Fox Network**. No money was gained from the writing of this fanfiction and all are used under the strictures of of the Berne Convention.


End file.
